Gospel Story Finder

Elder D. Todd Christofferson explained what he learned from a personal trial: “Though I suffered then, as I look back now, I am grateful that there was not a quick solution to my problem. The fact that I was forced to turn to God for help almost daily over an extended period of years taught me truly how to pray and get answers to prayer and taught me in a very practical way to have faith in God. I came to know my Savior and my Heavenly Father in a way and to a degree that might not have happened otherwise or that might have taken me much longer to achieve. … I learned to trust in the Lord with all my heart. I learned to walk with Him day by day.”

In our daily experiences with children, we discover they are most perceptive and often utter profound truths. Charles Dickens, the author of the classic A Christmas Carol, illustrated this fact when he described the humble Bob Cratchit family assembling for a rather meager but long-anticipated Christmas dinner. Bob, the father, was returning home with his frail son Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Tiny Tim “bore a little crutch, and had his limbs supported by an iron frame.” Bob’s wife asked of him, “And how did little Tim behave?”
“‘As good as gold,’ said Bob, ‘and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.’”8

It was a moment that 42 Eagle Scouts from the Boise Idaho North Stake will remember for a long time. Following a banquet in their honor, each of them stood and made a solemn promise—to go on a mission. What made it even more memorable was that the banquet was part of a trip from Boise to Salt Lake City to honor the Eagles, 26 of whom received their award in 1978. And one other thing made it a special promise as well—they made the promise to their former stake president, Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone of the First Quorum of the Seventy.
“I had already planned on serving a mission,” said Tim Duffy, 14, one of the Eagles. “But this really reinforced the desire.”
While in Salt Lake, the group toured the Church Office Building, Temple Square, the Church Historical Archives, and the Genealogical Library. At the banquet they were also addressed by Neil D. Schaerrer, the Young Men general president, and Paul K. Cropper, member of the Young Men General Board.

A lot of children at school use language that makes me uncomfortable. My mom and I said a prayer to ask for courage and to know the best thing to do. The next day when they started to use that language, I politely said, “Please stop using those words. It makes me feel uncomfortable.” They said, “OK, sorry.” That made me feel happy inside, and I was glad I learned that Heavenly Father will help me when I ask for help.

The Prophet Joseph Smith and his wife, Emma, had reason to ask why little children die—six of their children died. The Prophet said: “I have meditated upon the subject, and asked the question, why it is that infants, innocent children, are taken away from us, especially those that seem to be the most intelligent and interesting. The strongest reasons that present themselves to my mind are these: This world is a very wicked world. … The Lord takes many away, even in infancy, that they may escape the envy of man, and the sorrows and evils of this present world; they were too pure, too lovely, to live on earth; therefore, if rightly considered, instead of mourning we have reason to rejoice as they are delivered from evil, and we shall soon have them again.”7

One of the most profound means of instilling a righteous image in our children is through the use of scripture and family stories. My own image of what I wanted to be began with stories of my great-grandfather, Robert D. Young. He lived to be ninety-five years old and died when I was fourteen years old. But I love the man as much as if he had walked with me and taught me every step I was to take.
I have few recollections of my own concerning him, but I was raised on stories about him. One of my favorites told of how as a young teenager he had hired on with a group of cowboys to run a herd of cattle from Colorado to Texas. During the first few days of the journey, the owner of the herd, a very wealthy man with no family of his own, rode with the group, but then left to attend to other business. As the cowboys made their way to Texas, the other men, all older than grandfather, spent their free time in pursuits that grandfather didn’t consider worthwhile. Instead of joining them, he would find a quiet spot and study mathematics and engineering.
The night before they arrived at their destination, the other cowboys decided they wanted to go into a nearby town and celebrate their safe arrival. They tried to get grandfather to go, but grandfather insisted that he had been hired to tend the cattle, and he would do just that. Later that night, the owner returned to find grandfather alone with his cattle. He was so impressed that he offered grandfather one-half of all he owned if he would become his business partner. Grandfather would have never again wanted for anything, but he refused. He said he just didn’t feel like that was what the Lord wanted him to do.
Many times during my youth I remember thinking, “I want to be just like my grandfather!” Other times I would ask myself, “Now what would grandfather do?” and then act accordingly.

Many years ago, I observed a heartbreak—which became a tragedy. A young couple was nearing the delivery of their first child. Their lives were filled with the anticipation and excitement of this monumental experience. During the delivery, complications arose and the baby died. Heartbreak turned to grief, grief turned to anger, anger turned to blame, and blame turned to revenge toward the doctor, whom they held fully responsible. Parents and other family members became heavily involved, together seeking to ruin the reputation and the career of the physician. As weeks and then months of acrimony consumed the family, their bitterness was extended to the Lord. “How could He allow this horrible thing to occur?” They rejected the repeated efforts of Church leaders and members to spiritually and emotionally comfort them and, in time, disassociated themselves from the Church. Four generations of the family have now been affected. Where once there were faith and devotion to the Lord and His Church, there has been no spiritual activity by any family member for decades.

It took one year to build concrete steps down a volcanic cliffside to the swimming hole and the beautiful waterfall below. Four boys worked on this project. They had two picks, two crowbars, and one sledgehammer, and they worked every night after school and every Saturday for six months. Little by little, they chipped the rock away until they had a pathway wide enough to support some concrete clear to the bottom of the waterfall. It took them another six months of backbreaking labor to make the steps. They hauled sand from the beach in an old pickup truck. They added cement and took gravel from the river and mixed the concrete by hand in a shallow pocket hollowed out of a large stone. Then they shoveled the wet concrete into buckets and lowered them down the cliff with ropes attached to a long bamboo pole. One step at a time they worked until the trail was completed.

Case in point: Ruby. Lena Ma met Ruby at the library and struck up a conversation. “I asked Ruby what she usually does on Sunday,” Sister Ma says. “I asked about her son, if there was anything in her church for him. I then explained about our Primary organization and invited her to come and see for herself. She came and then attended some more. She started the missionary lessons yesterday.”

For Kayla Zipron, her testimony started when the missionaries were teaching her family about the plan of salvation. That has become her favorite discussion. “When they taught us the plan of salvation, I felt that something was right. I could feel the Spirit in the room. And, at Church, whenever we talk about the plan of salvation, the same feeling comes back. I feel the Spirit over again.”

Here on my mission to the Philippines, I discovered that Christmas is celebrated from September to December. Instead of bringing the snow that I’m used to, December in the Philippines is constantly full of rainy, gray skies. It’s green everywhere you look—banana trees, coconut palms, other palm trees.
For our last appointment on Christmas Eve, we visited a family we had just started teaching. We rode our bikes through the thick jungle to the family’s bamboo-stick, tin-roofed house. When we arrived, I saw the nanay (mother) fishing in the river behind her house with a long bamboo stick and a bit of string. She told us she was trying to catch fish for their ulam (main dish) so they could eat that night. We had planned to go to a Christmas party with the other missionaries at 6:30 p.m., but we decided to spend some time catching tiny fish in the rain to help this woman feed her family instead.
That night, as my companion and I watched a video about Jesus Christ’s birth, I thought about how He came into the world with nothing and left with nothing. The family we served didn’t have much either. But I realized you don’t need much to be happy. Christmas is about more than decorations, food, or even service. It’s about God’s love (see 1 Nephi 11:13–23). It’s about charity, the pure love of Christ. It’s about loving everyone.
Although this Christmas was different for me, my experience has given me extra motivation to keep working and keep serving because the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring people so much happiness. The gospel teaches us how we can reach out in love and charity. I felt charity for that family.
The author is serving in the Philippines Antipolo Mission.

Finally, the document concludes with this pledge. “For the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” (Italics added.)
How prophetic that pledge was to be!
Fifty-six men signed the document on August 2, 1776, or, in the case of some, shortly thereafter. They pledged their lives!—and at least nine of them died as a result of the war. If the Revolution had failed, if their fight had come to naught, they would have been hanged as traitors. They pledged their fortunes!—and at least fifteen fulfilled that pledge to support the war effort. They pledged their sacred honor!—best expressed by the noble statement of John Adams. He said: “All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I begun, that live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence, now, and INDEPENDENCE FOR EVER.” (Works of Daniel Webster, Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1877, 17th ed., 1:135.)

Ray Hedgecock, 15, walked out of a stereo shop to get on his bike and head for home, then decided to go back in and look at some tapes. Moments later the lights went out, the ground began to rumble and shake, glass shattered out of windows, and stereos bounced off of shelves. The beam Ray was standing under protected him from falling light fixtures. Thirty-two seconds later, his bicycle was buried under a pile of bricks, the building across the street was ablaze with fire, and most of the buildings within four blocks were reduced to rubble. “All you could hear was the ground rumbling, it was so loud. There was so much dust you couldn’t even see across the street,” Ray recalled.

As I held our tiny child, I considered the devastating events of the last few days, events that made me think back to the fires in Yellowstone National Park in 1988. The flames had consumed nearly 800,000 acres (323,750 ha) of forest. The park’s devastation seemed absolute. News images showed only scorched earth and thick black smoke in the sky. No amount of human effort could quickly bring back what was lost. It seemed as if even the tireless regeneration and vigor of nature was no match for the destructive power of fire.
Yet the next spring a quiet miracle occurred—small plants and flowers began to push through the charred soil. Gradually, more and more flowers and shrubs and trees bloomed from the earth. The rebirth of the park was slow and filled with tiny, glorious details, and over time the results were dramatic.

Tsentralny Branch meets in the House of Trade Unions Building near a large fountain in the center of the city. One Sunday in August 1992, three members of the Church from the United States visited the branch. Usually ten to fifteen children attend Primary. On this particular day, though, only five were present: Kirill, Tanya, Denise (10), Slyic (5), and Yaraslav (4).
During Primary singing time, the children learned the words and actions to “Book of Mormon Stories.” Sister Norton, a missionary from California, taught the lesson. She explained the importance of asking for a blessing on the food before eating a meal. She asked the children about their favorite foods. Tanya and Slyic like soup. Denise likes pineapple but only gets it occasionally because it is very expensive. Yaraslav enjoys bananas and watermelon. Kirill likes bananas and borscht (beet soup). Bananas cost so much that his mother must save money to buy one.

Like him, many of us must learn to retain our faith in God’s justice and live worthy for blessings that do not come immediately. I remember a fine young man in Solingen, Germany, whom my companion and I taught diligently, fasted for, and prayed about. His parents originally denied him permission to be baptized, and he later lost interest in the Church. But thirteen years later, after the break-up of his marriage, he found the Church again; and when a business interview took him to Chicago he came on to Salt Lake City, and I had the immense joy of baptizing him.

Richard had worried ever since Dad first mentioned removing the training wheels from his bicycle. He’d hoped the idea had been forgotten, but on Saturday morning he found Dad kneeling beside the bicycle, with his tools spread out on the driveway.
“But Dad,” Richard said, “I like riding with the training wheels. I don’t want you to take them off yet.”
Dad picked up a wrench and loosened the bolts that held the small wheels in place. At the same time, he spoke in his sure, quiet voice. “I think that you should try riding without them. If it doesn’t work out, I can put them back on.”
“I want to wait until my birthday,” Richard said. But in the back of his mind, he knew that he was the oldest kid in the neighborhood—maybe in the whole world—riding a bicycle with training wheels.
The wheels were just off, when Richard’s younger brother, Russell, appeared. “I want to ride Richard’s bike. I can do it, Dad.”
“You have your tricycle,” Dad said. “We’re going to the park. If you want to go with us, get your trike and come along.”
Dad rolled Richard’s bicycle down the sidewalk toward the park. Richard dragged after him, and Russell followed on his tricycle. When they reached the bike path, Russell climbed onto the bicycle seat. Dad gently lifted him off and said, “You’re too little for this bicycle, Russell, and Richard needs to practice riding it. You ride your tricycle.”
Dad helped steady the bicycle while Richard got on. He wished he wasn’t scared, but he was. He pleaded, “Dad, please hang onto me. Don’t let me go all by myself.”
But Dad gave the bike a little push, and Richard wobbled down the path. The bicycle teetered and tottered more and more. Finally, it tipped over.
Dad hurried over to help him up. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but it was really scary, Dad.”
“Let me try, Dad,” Russell begged. “I’m not a bit scared. I can do it.”
“You have your own wheels,” Dad said. “Richard just needs some more practice.”
On his next ride, Richard stayed on longer, and before it was time to go home, he could ride down the path and back without falling over. He felt great!
All the time Russell kept asking, “Why can’t I have a turn, Dad? I can do it.”
Finally, before they headed home, Dad relented. “All right, Russell, get on. I’ll hold you up.”
Russell climbed onto the seat confidently and, before Dad could get a firm grip on the bike, rode off. He flew along the path, his bright hair standing straight up in the breeze.
Richard and Dad looked at each other in amazement.
“Why does it always have to be this way?” Richard moaned. “He does everything better than I do, and he’s just a little kid.”
“He is doing well for a boy who never rode a bicycle before, isn’t he?” Dad admitted.
“Remember when we went to the lake, Dad? Russell could swim better than I could, and he even dared to dive off the rocks.”
“He had a good time,” Dad said. “But you did, too, didn’t you?”
“He caught a lot of fish,” Richard reminded Dad, “and I only caught one. See what I mean?”
Dad put his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Just remember that no two people are exactly the same. You have your talents. He has his.”
Richard wasn’t sure what Dad meant. He was sure of one thing, though—Russell had stolen his joy in learning to ride without his training wheels. When they got home, Russell told everyone about his first ride on a bicycle. He repeated several times, “And I never even needed training wheels!”
Richard went to his room. He tried to read a book, but the twins were scrapping right outside his door.
“It’s mine!”
“It is not!” Joyce yelled even louder than Judy.
Richard put his book down and went into the hall. “What’s the problem?”
“This is my book bag,” Judy said.
“It is not!” Joyce argued.
Richard examined the bag. “You’re right, Judy,” he said. “It’s yours.” He turned to Joyce. “Remember when Grandmother gave you both book bags? She put a red dot on the bottom of Judy’s. Here it is—see?”
The twins agreed, and Joyce went to find her bag.
It was quiet in the house again. Richard went back to his room, slumped on the edge of his bed, and thought about Russell. He felt downright miserable. There’s nothing worse than being outdone by your little brother every time you turn around.
Dad knocked and came in and sat on the bed next to Richard. “It’s amazing how much smoother things go when you’re around.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a natural peacemaker.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I noticed how you settled the twins’ disagreement. That isn’t the first time I’ve seen you figure things out for people who were having trouble getting along.”
Richard suddenly felt good.
“I believe that one of the rarest talents in the world is that of smoothing out problems between people. You’re just amazing, Richard!”
When Dad went away, Richard lay on his bed, grinning at the ceiling. He did have a talent! He repeated the words his dad had said, “You’re a natural peacemaker.”
All the dark feelings he’d had before went away. He felt just fine!

During my life I have had many experiences of being guided in what I should do and in being protected from injury and also from evil. The Lord’s protecting care has shielded me from the evil acts of others and has also protected me from surrendering to my own worst impulses. I enjoyed that protection one warm summer night on the streets of Chicago. I have never shared this experience in public. I do so now because it is a persuasive illustration of my subject.
My wife, June, had attended a ward officers’ meeting. When I came to drive her home, she was accompanied by a sister we would take home on our way. She lived in the nearby Woodlawn area, which was the territory of a gang called the Blackstone Rangers.
I parked at the curb outside this sister’s apartment house and accompanied her into the lobby and up the stairs to her door. June remained in the car on 61st Street. She locked all of the doors, and I left the keys in the ignition in case she needed to drive away. We had lived on the south side of Chicago for quite a few years and were accustomed to such precautions.
Back in the lobby, and before stepping out into the street, I looked carefully in each direction. By the light of a nearby streetlight, I could see that the street was deserted except for three young men walking by. I waited until they were out of sight and then walked quickly toward our car.
As I came to the driver’s side and paused for June to unlock the door, I saw one of these young men running back toward me. He had something in his right hand, and I knew what it would be. There was no time to get into the car and drive away before he came within range.
Fortunately, as June leaned across to open the door, she glanced through the back window and saw this fellow coming around the end of the car with a gun in his hand. Wisely, she did not unlock the door. For the next two or three minutes, which seemed like an eternity, she was a horrified spectator to an event happening at her eye level, just outside the driver’s window.
The young man pushed the gun against my stomach and said, “Give me your money.” I took the wallet out of my pocket and showed him it was empty. I wasn’t even wearing a watch I could offer him because my watchband had broken earlier that day. I offered him some coins I had in my pocket, but he growled a rejection.
“Give me your car keys,” he demanded. “They are in the car,” I told him. “Tell her to open the car,” he replied. For a moment I considered the new possibilities that would present, and then refused. He was furious. He jabbed me in the stomach with his gun and said, “Do it, or I’ll kill you.”
Although this event happened twenty-two years ago, I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. I read somewhere that nothing concentrates the mind as wonderfully as having someone stand in front of you with a deadly weapon and tell you he intends to kill you.
When I refused, the young robber repeated his demands, this time emphasizing them with an angrier tone and more motion with his gun. I remember thinking that he probably wouldn’t shoot me on purpose, but if he wasn’t careful in the way he kept jabbing that gun into my stomach, he might shoot me by mistake. His gun looked like a cheap one, and I was nervous about its firing mechanism.
“Give me your money.” “I don’t have any.” “Give me your car keys.” “They’re in the car.” “Tell her to open the car.” “I won’t do it.” “I’ll kill you if you don’t.” “I won’t do it.”
Inside the car June couldn’t hear the conversation, but she could see the action with the gun. She agonized over what she should do. Should she unlock the door? Should she honk the horn? Should she drive away? Everything she considered seemed to have the possibility of making matters worse, so she just waited and prayed. Then a peaceful feeling came over her. She felt it would be all right.
Then, for the first time, I saw the possibility of help. From behind the robber, a city bus approached. It stopped about twenty feet away. A passenger stepped off and scurried away. The driver looked directly at me, but I could see that he was not going to offer any assistance.
While this was happening behind the young robber, out of his view, he became nervous and distracted. His gun wavered from my stomach until its barrel pointed slightly to my left. My arm was already partly raised, and with a quick motion I could seize the gun and struggle with him without the likelihood of being shot. I was taller and heavier than this young man and at that time of my life was somewhat athletic. I had no doubt that I could prevail in a quick wrestling match if I could get his gun out of the contest.
Just as I was about to make my move, I had a unique experience. I did not see anything or hear anything, but I knew something. I knew what would happen if I grabbed that gun. We would struggle, and I would turn the gun into that young man’s chest. It would fire, and he would die. I also understood that I must not have the blood of that young man on my conscience for the rest of my life.
I relaxed, and as the bus pulled away I followed an impulse to put my right hand on his shoulder and give him a lecture. June and I had some teenage children at that time, and giving lectures came naturally.
“Look here,” I said. “This isn’t right. What you’re doing just isn’t right. The next car might be a policeman, and you could get killed or sent to jail for this.”
With the gun back in my stomach, the young robber replied to my lecture by going through his demands for the third time. But this time his voice was subdued. When he offered the final threat to kill me, he didn’t sound persuasive. When I refused again, he hesitated for a moment and then stuck the gun in his pocket and ran away. June unlocked the door, and we drove off, uttering a prayer of thanks. We had experienced the kind of miraculous protection illustrated in the Bible stories I had read as a boy.
I have often pondered the significance of that event in relation to the responsibilities that came later in my life. Less than a year after that August night, I was chosen as president of Brigham Young University. Almost fourteen years after that experience, I received my present calling.

A college student hoping to repent of some serious mistakes and straighten out his life told me only a few days ago of an influence which, for a time, controlled his life. His desire to have some expert ski equipment encouraged him to accept a job on Sundays and evenings. This prevented him from attending priesthood and other Sunday meetings. Now he was too tired to attend early morning seminary. With his new, fancy ski equipment, he made the high school team and made some new friends. To be “with it,” he started to smoke and soon moved to marijuana and from marijuana to LSD. His father and mother now appeared old-fashioned to him. He moved from his parents’ home to live with his newfound friends in an old house. The house had extra rooms, so they invited a young lady—also on drugs—to move in. His father tried to visit him, to communicate through letters. But this young man now felt completely disenchanted with church and home. After these tragic mistakes, he finally came to his senses and moved home with his parents. He told me, “The devil seemed to be in charge of my life.”

Unfortunately, people aren’t always so nice to those who are different. I’m sorry to say that some children were unkind to Gary. They shut him out of their games, called him ugly names, and teased him unmercifully. One time when he was eating an ice-cream cone, another child guided him over to a dog and let it lick the ice cream. Everyone laughed when Gary went back to licking the cone himself.